Agoraphobia
by AbominableDante
Summary: Sequel to ‘Birth of a Monster’. Complete. Read at your discretion.
1. Chapter 1

**Agoraphobia Far 1**

**Author's Notes: **This is not a songfic. I just put that in there to show what inspired the next set of Farfarello chapters. This is a sequel to 'Birth of a Monster'.

**Disclaimer: **I deny any and all claims of ownership of Weiss Kreuze, the characters of the Weiss Kreuze, Swartz, and the lot. After saying that, I may now say this: MINE! (Grabs for Farfarello)

**Warnings: **Fruitatiously tasty with a chaser of Bloody Mary, Heroine and a shot of Vodka. (Translation: Yaoi/Shonen-ai, violence, substance abuse, and a Russian).

_Two people touching lips  
Hands on each other's hips  
Nothing else in the world but one another_

_The 42nd floor  
On a distant shore  
I wonder how we've strayed so far from this_

_Remember when we were  
Just flesh and bone  
You sir may have forgotten how good your world can be_

_So, put down your hollow tips  
And kiss your lovers lips  
And know that fate is what we make of it_

_Please end this, please end this  
Before this ends us, ends us, end us_

_I wanna stay inside  
I wanna stay inside for good  
I wanna stay inside  
For good, for good, for good, for good , for good, for good, for good_

_I read the news today  
And everything they say  
Just makes me want to stay inside and wait_

_But the better part of me knows  
That waiting in the throws  
Is on par with reading with my eyes closed_

_"What Can I do?", You say  
"It's just another day  
In the life of Apes with ego trips"_

_Put down your hollow tips  
And kiss your lover's lips  
And know that fate is what we make of it_

_Please end this, please end this  
Before this ends us, ends us, end us_

_I wanna stay inside  
I wanna stay inside for good  
I wanna stay inside  
For good, For good_

_ohh, ohhh, ohhhh oooo  
ohhh oooo, oh  
ahhhh_

_I'm gonna stay inside  
I'm gonna stay inside for good  
I'm gonna stay inside  
For good, for good_

_I wanna stay inside  
I wanna stay inside for good  
I wanna stay inside  
Don't want to stay inside for good  
Don't wanna stay inside, for good, for good, for good, for good, for good, for good, fuck off, for good, for good, for good, for good_

_**Agoraphobia**_

_-Incubus, 'A Crow Left For Murder'_

Against all orders, I'm reading psychology books. I can't help it, they interest me. Especially Freud…some days I think _he_ was sexually obsessed, with the theories he came up with…

Unreal…

I'd diagnosed everyone in the house with a different psychological disorder. Crawford possesses a psychosis rather like apathy, according to that constant emotionless face he puts up. The book calls it 'flat affect'. The thing is, I think Nagi would fit the bill much better than Crawford. Brad, after all, still has his emotions.

Days like these I wonder if they sent back the tin man instead of our boy…his reaction to school wasn't horrified or enthusiastic…nothing. He came home and went to do his homework without talking to us. When Crawford asked, he said that he was assigned to do it, compelled by law, so he really had no feelings about it. He finished up his peanut butter sandwich and went back to finish a research report.

Even Schuldig's afraid of him.

Back to the mentally disabled…

Schuldig is the classic case of mood disorder, mania/ narcissm. He can't help but smile and mock-preen when I think about it, which makes me smile back and feel quite sure he'd mad. He's been spending more time with me during the day to avoid what he likes to call 'The Nagi-bot'. He figures if he's with me, he doesn't have to talk to the boy. I haven't suggested that he could just ignore him like I do, but not for the joy of his company. To be perfectly honest, he's annoying me with all his talking. His shields aren't always on 100, so sometimes the voices come without his realizing it.

One time I caught him muttering to himself in Japanese about his 'cheating, no good, whore-wife' as he tried to hard boil two dozen eggs in a pot of water that barely held six on a good day. He hates eggs. It was hilarious, especially when he realized he'd briefly lost control and nearly had a panic attack with the idea that his shields were gone. Nagi and I ate the eggs while he was screaming at Crawford to do something.

As much of a nuisance he is on a regular social basis, he's improved the control of his psychokinesis. It seems to have grown stronger too, because he's never picked up cars and swung them at people before, or simply crushed a human being in a huge invisible fist. He doesn't talk much, shows no interest in normal, everyday things, but he doesn't ask me stupid questions or complain about my cooking, so we get on fine.

I haven't had a meltdown in weeks now, even though I sometimes hear things no one else does, but that can't be helped. Takatori's using the full team with a zest we all know he shouldn't if he wants to stay looking like a clean-cut politician, but Crawford rarely (if ever) says so. He likes the money rolling into a bank accounts, likes saving it for something, whatever it is, planned for the future. He doesn't discuss it with us now that Nagi's here, since we still can't be sure he isn't reporting as a spy to Esset yet, but he suggested something once, long ago. I think I was sixteen then; the time before Nagi, B.N.

Schuldig saunters in and flops down on the couch, the same hideous green leather couch we've had for what seems like a decade. It looks a little worn, a little old, a couple of tears and cigarette-burned holes. I hate this couch.

I put my legs over Schuldig's lap, demanding payment for allowing him to hang around this time, and he surprisingly obliges with a foot rub, taking brief breaks to bite down on a tough apple and suck out the tart meat. I raise an eyebrow, wondering at the sudden change in taste (he doesn't like fruit either) and he just shrugs, sets the apple aside and goes back to rubbing my foot.

"Diagnosing us again?" he asks, smirking at my book.

"Decided that a man cannot survive on coffee and cigarettes alone?" I reply in much the same tone. I shakes his head at me.

"Of course he can't! He needs booze too."

"Of course," I murmur softly and go back to my book, or try to.

"I'm thinking about taking a look into the kid's head. He's creepy and I want to know why."

I sigh and set the book aside. If Schuldig didn't get the hint the first time, he won't get it for the rest of the conversation.

He's dense on purpose.

"Of course, if he is a spy he'll tell Esset we know and who knows what that might start."

"Or he could crush you for trying," I suggested with more glee than I intended. I enjoyed the thought of Schuldig dying right now. He won't let me read in peace.

Every martyr must suffer, I suppose. Schuldig snorts.

"Then you get Crawford to shoot him or something."

I think about it, shake my head.

"You realize he's got enough power to kill us all with a thought."

"So have I," Schuldig replies a little snarkily. I sigh and shrug. I'm not interested in this topic anymore.

"Talk to Brad about it. He might be able to give you a positive or negative on the idea, much better than I."

"Way to displace the blame, Far."

"Hey, just think of me as the family dog. I get blamed for everything, including, but not limited to gas. You should take some for once," I laugh.

He frowns at me and shoves my feet off, gets up, stretches so his designer shirt with sixties psychedelic swirls that clash with his hair rides up his stomach. I hate that shirt and vow to burn it later. He glares at me for the mere thought and meanders off, angry in a way that I know I'm sleeping alone tonight, unless he forgets later.

See what I mean? Narcissistic little bastard. He's exactly like a cat.

Maybe we should start thinking of _him_ as the house pet.

_**NS**_

I've finished the book and I'm very pleasantly catatonic on the couch, Nagi on the very far end from me, switching channels on the television without interest. I think the only emotion he has is boredom...

I waggle my toes at him.

He looks over at me and his eyes flicker for a second. My heart flips and I give my little toe-wave again. His eyes flash again and I recognize it was humor. I cross my eyes, puff out my cheeks and pretend I'm a fish. This rewards me with the barest hint of a smile.

My chest swells and I can't help but laugh in triumph. I've just done what we've all been wondering about for the past month since Nagi's return. I made him smile. I made _Nagi_ smile!

He looks a little frightened of my laughter, the sheer noise of it probably making him think he's done something wrong, but I smile up at him as nicely as I can.

"No, its okay, Nagi-kun," I whisper so Schuldig and Crawford can't hear. They're in the next room and probably curious as to what I laughed at, but not enough to give up their quiet debate about looking into the boy's head. They've been talking about it all afternoon, hoping against all hope the kid doesn't understand French, because they'd been speaking in it the whole time.

"You can smile; we're not going to get mad about it. We'd rather you would."

His voice is so small I can barely hear it, so tender I wonder where it's been hiding all these weeks. I remember that voice, from before Esset training schools…

"They said it was inappropriate for operatives to…"

I sit up, which silences him. My face is twisted in disgust at the mention of the trainers (sorry, 'teachers') of the schools…They tried to feed me the exact same bullshit before they realized I'd just throw it right back at them.

"Trust me, if you hold it in, it'll just make you crack. Even Crawford…you've seen him in the morning. It's like something escaped from the zoo," I whisper back. He smiles at the joke and I am almost entirely positive that he isn't a spy. He's like us, he can still think right, he's just young and shy and impressionable.

"They'd been talking about it, Schuldig and Crawford, they're worried about me," he says, and I can't hide the mix of amusement and fear on my face.

I can't help it.

The only think I can think to say is, "When did you learn French?"

"I'm not a spy, Farfarello," he whispers conspiratorially at me, ignoring my non sequitor, quite possibly used to them by now.

"But if you tell them, they won't listen, is that it?"

He nods and I sigh.

"And if I tell them, they'll just think I'm being over protective…"

He nods again and flips the television again, just to keep up appearances. If anyone looks, it'll appear as if we're discussing what to watch.

"Maybe you should offer to let Schuldig have a look around, just to be sure. He and Crawford probably won't feel comfortable about it until he does."

"But…Does it hurt?"

"I don't think so, but I'm not really the one to ask," I sigh, "Most of it's probably nothing at all. If he hurts you, just tell him, but I doubt he would."

Nagi did not look reassured, his eyes going back to the anime on screen.

Dragon Ball Z, of course, he's still a boy after all, but even he should be bored of the three and a half episodes of powering-up…

"Are you really indifferent about school, or was that just the façade?"

"Façade?"

Of yeah…twelve year olds don't often know the entirety of the English language, especially if it's their second language. I grope for a similar word.

"Mask."

"Oh. Yes," he mumbles, "I don't really like it. It's too noisy. No one really likes me. They think I'm weird."

Not entirely unfounded.

"If Crawford says I have to go, I'll go. He likes the good grades I get."

I smile and nod.

"High marks will open a lot of doors to you in the future."

"Crawford says the same thing."

Of course he does…

"Well, don't worry so much about those kids. They might come around. Then again, they might not. Either way, you'll figure out how to be happy there. And even if you don't, high school isn't too far off. A lot of things are supposed to change in high school."

"Supposed to? Didn't you go?"

"Not really, no. I was in the asylum before that."

He visibly shrinks at the mention of the asylum. I suppose he'd rather not think of me as unbalanced. That's fine. It doesn't bother me. I ruffle his hair and sit back to watch television.

Its several minute of silent watching, but Nagi speaks again, very softly.

"I'll let Schuldig look."

I smile and pat his hair again.

_Fin chapter one_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **My hair has faded into a lovely shade of orange. A lot of people are saying the orange is better than the red was. They ask me if I did it over (bleached my hair and dyed it again on purpose) and are surprised when I say no. My roots (black, of course) are nearly two inches long now, but my hair is so damaged and fluffy they barely show.

In other words, yes, I submitted to the mourning masses of my last fic 'Birth of a Monster'. You got it, I'm writing this shit again, against all better judgment. School starts in less than two weeks, job training in but five days, and I have no idea when I'll actually get around to writing around all the work, classes, homework, studying, report-writing, actually having a life and the possibilities of clubs.

The only concession to Community College? They have an anime club.

My life is so strange. I adore being such a geek. I've also discovered liquid eyeliner. It never really comes off and it makes me look like a drug addict when it smears, but I can't help making such pretty designs around my eyes. So I stab myself, I look pretty doing it.

I'm excited about school, but not my math class. Math needs to die.

**To My Readers: **REVIEW! NOW!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **Referring to the story: I've decided to up Nagi's age from twelve to thirteen. It gives him more time with Esset and should come to about the right age to the anime when Weiss comes in.

Referring to the rest of life: I've take up watercolor painting for lack of any other mediums. I've also been doing a lot of abstract, virtually meaningless, but beautiful works with pencil, charcoal, marker and pen. All of this, plus studying my Political Ideologies textbook, reading a couple of the many half-finished recreational books, and writing is to avoid working on the comic.

I really hate my writer's interest in a plot. We don't even have all the characters up yet, my drawing still hasn't improved much, and I'm rather more interested in one-liners and comics with amusing punch lines to draw in readers. A plot, in my belief, would simply bore the public.

I'm too lazy to do it myself, though. I think I haven't 'fired' her because she constantly reminds me to work (which I'm grateful for, even though at the time you wouldn't think so) and maintains the site. I'm not computer-friendly beyond managing minor, simple things, like a Xanga, a MySpace (cringe), a Gaia account and and my enormous collection of bookmarks to nearly a hundred different webcomics.

Yeah, its summer and I have no life. Just wait until the school year starts, and then I'll have too much.

Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to Scotty, my writer. Love ya, babes, no matter how much I complain about you. That and you refuse to read this shit. (laughs)

**2**

**Me and the Minibar:**

Bring two Pre Fix dinners up  
I'll unwrap the plastic cups  
It's just us my love  
It's just us my love

I will make the room up nice  
Put your insides all on ice  
It was real true love  
It was real true love

Close all the windows  
Put signs on the handles  
And strip down to my dun-dun-duns  
You have gone so far  
You have gone so far

And tonight  
Its just me and the minibar

Candles from the Wal-Mart that  
Every city's got to have  
That I bought last night  
That I bought last night

I was so excited to  
Do such normal things with you  
When you left last night  
With your toothbrush dry

No such details will spoil my plan  
That is the kind of girl I am  
HA HA HA

Can you hear room 318?  
Man they're really happening   
They're a wild bunch  
They're a wild bunch  
But if they just knew  
What my night was coming to  
God would they vomit and run  
You have gone so far  
You have gone too far  
So tonight  
It's just me and the minibar  
Nobody else  
And I sing at the top of my lungs  
Happy birthday us  
Happy birthday us...

**Dresden Dolls**  
"Yes, Virginia…"

February, coldest damn month of the year.

Why on earth do people celebrate Valentine's day as a romantic holiday when people are the most unattractive (turtlenecks are not sexy, no matter what anyone says (who says that, anyway?)) is beyond me. Personally, I think the practice of beaheading would be more appropriate according to Catholic legend.

After all, St. Valentine was beheaded.

Now that is romantic, much the same way shooting someone with your lover's hand wrapped around your own is romantic. After that you go home, have a good fuck and go to bed happy. You wake up the next day and pretend the other doesn't exist.

About as romantic as a married couple.

Ugh, no wonder Schuldig sleeps around so much. Well, the more power to him.

If he brings some parasite home I'll kill him.

February is also the month of Nagi's birthday. Congratulations, boy, you've made it one more year. You'll be rewarded with zits, voice changes, immortally incompetent hair growth, hormones out your ear and a brand new gun to take it all out on humanity. It's a Beretta and beautiful in its simple, small existence. You'll also get a shirt you'll never wear and, of all things, a trip to the pet store.

I wanted to get him a puppy. I like dogs. Dogs are sweet pets, a little demanding, but every boy should have one, shouldn't they? I used to have a dog in Ireland, a terrier-based mutt that had simply followed Valerie and me home when I was six. His name was Malcom X in a spur of the moment pick out of a history book leftover from my father's college days. I never did get the context until after my fifteenth birthday, when we got our first computer and I did a little research.

Malcom X…no wonder my parents looked on in horror whenever that dog ran a cat up the tree in our front yard.

Brad drove us to the store and dumped us. Apparently he had a meeting, or maybe he just wanted to go home and work on schematics…or meditate. It didn't matter. He told us not to get anything that could be potentially caught in the wild and nothing too expensive. Schuldig immediately suggested we pick up a bunch of snakes and dump them in Crawford's dresser drawers and got a stern look for his audacity.

Nagi, shy boy that he is, had to be literally shoved into the store. He really doesn't like people. They think he's so adorable (their words, not mine), and they can't get enough of his eyes. The attention just makes him withdraw more, especially when two Gaijin are escorting him. I'm bad enough as it is, I have yet to see anyone else in the world who looks even remotely like me, but Schuldig's red hair is the fascination of almost every single being on the island. He just soaks up the attention, thrives like a weed and demands more. He adores crowds that admire him.

I get lost in the store, even though it isn't very large. I'm tapping on the glass of a black lab pup when Nagi comes up to me and grabs my hand, dragging me off to another, smellier part of the store. He points into a glass cage at the fluttering wings inside and I smile. Perfect. Nagi does seem a bit of the bird type.

A pretty little cockatoo whistles at us and I ask the attendant to bring it out for Nagi to see. She nods and holds the animal out for Nagi to pet. It bites him and flinches when Nagi yelps in surprise, but I tell him it's supposed to bite.

"It's just tasting you," I explain, holding my finger out for the bird to nip. Once it realizes I'm okay it lets me pet it. Nagi cocks his head slightly.

"Why?"

"I guess it's how they see if you're a good person or bad. I don't know much about birds."

Val liked birds…

"Good or bad?"

"Just try again. It's very soft."

He reaches out but the bird bites again and he pulls his hand away and shakes his head. I thank the woman as she puts it back and she smiles, telling us they have many other birds.

"I don't think I want a bird, Farfarello," he says softly, ignoring the woman entirely simply because she is unfamiliar. I nod to her slightly, thank her again and led the boy away from the cages of squawking birds.

"I would like a pet," he continues once we've gone to another part of the store, "But I really don't know which."

I look over at the tanks lining the walls, filled to the brim with bubbling, brightly colored fish.

"We'll narrow it down then. No birds. We've already done that one. I refuse to clean a fish tank, so no to that too. How about a dog?"

"We'd have to take it out in all kinds of weather," the boy reasons. I sigh and nod, not liking the idea either.

"A reptile?"

"I hate snakes. They used them at…"

I nod, shuttering at the thought of what they'd done with them…

Those poor snakes, those poor boys…

"How about a tarantula? Schu hates spiders. It's a guarantee he'd stay out of your room if you got one."

"No…just no."

I laugh.

"How about a cat?" Schuldig's voice asks as he emerges from behind a layer of shelves, "Farfarello has always had a fondness for cats. I have to admit, I rather like them too."

"Emulate and like are very far apart on the spectrum, Schuldig."

"I saw some rather nice-looking ones just a minute ago. Plus they're on sale."

'On sale'…something in that phrase sets a little animal-rights advocate off in my head and it makes me smile. I look to Nagi.

"Well, care to look?"

He nods once and we follow Schuldig over to the plate glass, behind which is a room full of dim cages with a different cat in each. They come in every color they could possible come in: orange, gray, black, calico, red gingham…

I open the door to the room and Nagi follows behind me and kneels by one of the cages on the distant side from the wall. A tiny little paw snatches out from between the bars, dainty and white with little black pads and opal-colored claws. Nagi holds his hand out for the cat to smell and smiles slightly when a little pink tongue licks him.

I move over toward him and blink down at the little white kitten, huge blue eyes remarkably like Nagi's looking calmly back at me. The label says the kitten is a few weeks old, the last of the litter that was found somewhere near the store, abandoned by its mother.

Schuldig is picking on a little gray cat when I open the cage and pull out the kitten. It sedately crawls into Nagi's lap and licks its paw to wash its face. I see Schuldig's face when he looks at the cat and it can only be described as disorientation. I'll bet he wanted something black, just to make fun of our group's name. Nagi looks at me with almost hopeful eyes, almost because emotions still just barely crawl across his face.

"Can we get this one?"

I turn to check the label again. The amount of yen it costs is close to sixty American dollars, cheap according to cat pedigree, if I know anything about felines. It's a male, apparently gets on well with a small family unit and other cats and is 'friendly and like to sleep'.

"Sure. What do you want to name him?" I ask as we get up, the kitten cradled in Nagi's arms. It looks as if it never wants to move, the way it's settled in his clutches.

"I don't know yet."

"Koshu toire!" Schuldig laughs, making flushing motions at the cat.

"We are not naming it that!" I snap back.

"Well, what would you call it?" Schuldig purrs at me, "Macavity?"

"You've been watching way too many musicals, you're starting to turn gay," I grouse back. He laughs and shells out the money for the cat. I take the carrier, litterbox, litter and catfood since Nagi won't let the damn cat go.

"Poe."

"Kurt."

"Freddie Mercury."

"Henry the eighth."

"Frankenstein."

"George."

"Salvador."

"Bast."

"Karl Marx."

"Would you please shut up?" Nagi hisses at the two of us. He's already stolen Schuldig's cell phone and dialed for Crawford to come and pick us up when the car arrives.

Prompt as ever. It's nice having a psychic chauffer. You never have to wait for a ride.

Schuldig just smirked conspiratorially at me and gets in.

Crawford looks at the cat and raises an eyebrow at us.

"Interesting choice," he murmurs. Schuldig and I look up at him, curious.

"Why is that, Crawdaddy?" Schuldig asks, beaming those annoying waves around the car. Crawford puts the car in gear and glances once more at Nagi cuddling the tiny white furball.

"Later."

"Weiss?" Schuldig suggests. I groan.

"You couldn't come up with something a little more original?"

He just smiles.

_**NS**_

The kitten remains nameless for nearly a week before Nagi comes up with a name. We refer to it as 'cat' or, more eloquently 'goddamn, flea-ridden, varmint'. We've discovered that Crawford hates cats, was bitten as a child or something. He's also allergic, but only mildly. It's the funniest thing I've ever seen from him, running around with a tissue on hand at all times, just in case the cat comes in and dares shed on him.

Crawford doesn't have the heart to send it away, though, not when it makes Nagi so happy. Especially not when Schuldig and I nearly threatened death when he first suggested it.

"Tennyson," Nagi says proudly, manipulating the English words efficiently.

"Like the poet?" I ask. Schuldig just frowns at me, having never been fond of poetry and thus uneducated in the more famous ones.

"Hai. The poet."

"You like his poetry?" I asked, a little surprised. His was from the romantic era, and probably the more boring shit I've ever read. It was too idealistic for me, so I gave it to Nagi. I didn't actually expect him to read it.

A pause.

"Okay then," I say, still a little weirded out. I sit back on the couch and go back to patching buttons on Schuldig and Crawford's shirts. Expensive as those shirts are, they're always falling apart.

"Tennyson the cat…to be honest, I liked Macavity better. Now _he_ had some personality," says Schuldig as he walks in, spoon in one hand and a pint-sized carton of ice cream in the other. Ben and Jerry's; cookie dough. I jealously wonder where he got it.

"Oh, shut up, Schuldig."

Nagi throws the cat a string of yarn and watches him dart about the room trying to catch it.

_Fin Chapter 2_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **

Koshu toire: Some very demonized Japanese, translating to 'public toilet'.

Macavity: From T.S Elliot's poem, 'Macavity: The Mystery Cat'. Also from the musical, 'Cats'.

Poe: Edgar Allen Poe.

Kurt: Kurt Cobain from Nirvana. Could also be a Star Trek reference.

Freddie Mercury: From Queen.

Henry the eighth: That guy with six wives and the Protestant Church, mentioned to piss Farfarello off.

Frankenstein: Because Mary Shelly was mentioned in the Political Ideologies textbook because of her mother's role as the 'first feminist'.

George: For Emily.

Salvador: Salvador Dali, a famous Spanish painter known best for his painting "The Persistence of Memory" and other surrealist works. He is also one of my favorite painters

Bast: Egyptian Mythological Goddess of cats (according to the most generalized definitions).

Karl Marx: Father of Marxism.

Weiss: Translation from German meaning 'white'. Also the name of the soon-to-be rival assassin team. No, the references weren't coincidence.

Tennyson: For Alfred Lord Tennyson, author of 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', among others and is also one of my favorites. I guessed about the 'Romantic Era' crap.

Others of Dali's works I especially like is "Ordinary French Loaf with Two Fried Eggs Riding without a Plate, Trying to Sodomize a Heel of a Portuguese Loaf", "Girl at the Window", "Cubist Self-Portrait", "Fried Eggs on a Plate without the Plate", " Mae West's Face Which Can Be Used as a Surrealist Apartment", " The Temptation of Saint Anthony", and " Animated Still Life".

I also really love Pablo Picasso's works, everything from the Blue Period and some of his cubist works as well. Among other styles I like Cubist, Surrealist, Dada and Abstract (but not so abstract it's a stripe of white on a black canvas). Basically, a lot of the modern stuff you hand to me I'll like. The classical paintings beyond the masters I doubt I'll ever really understand.

Not that I'm claiming to be an expert. I'm just in an artistic mood today.

Best painting in the world? "Guernica" 1937, Oil on Canvas, Pablo Picasso.

**To My Readers: **

**Rori Barton: **Was it you who gave me the blender threats? Anyway, I was impressed by the adamant (understatement of the month) denials to my ending, so I started a new one.

What can I say, I'm a review junkie, just shoot me up with some and I'm happy for hours. (dazed expression)

Anyway, Thank you! (hugs) now review some more!

**Morbid Knight: **I love Gir! (glomps) (replying Gir voice) I loooooove candy!

As I told Rori-san, I'm a review junkie. I'll write anything to pull in the readers.

I don't speak French, German, Japanese or Pig Latin. I'm the atypical American suburban kid, although eventually I'll take a verbal basics German class…maybe next semester? Not like it'll help me with anything, but it'd be cool to say I knew some. And it might help with translations for my Hellsing fic 'Umber', in which the main character is German. I got a couple of reviews saying my use of Babel Fish wasn't cutting it. (shrugs)

You know, I saw a girl at Otukon with a Gir-dress. I never got a picture, but it was so cute I wanted to snatch it right off of her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **Did my second installment for the 'Driving Behind the Wheel' today. I got the same cop from the first one. I almost ran a stop sign by accident, but the guy was so nice about it and didn't could it against me. I did fairly well, but I've been driving a long time now, so it's expected. Tomorrow, I'm doing my final installment with the same guy and I'm going to do interstate driving. This is good, because I love interstate driving. It's so much more organized. This isn't to say much for the crazy people out there, I'm one of those slow drivers if I can help it, but even they rub me wrong.

Of course, after driving in Baltimore in rush hour, I could drive anywhere.

'**Imagine'**

Imagine there's no heaven,  
It's easy if you try,  
No hell below us,  
Above us only sky,  
Imagine all the people  
living for today...

Imagine there's no countries,  
It isn't hard to do,  
Nothing to kill or die for,  
No religion too,  
Imagine all the people  
living life in peace...

You may say I'm a dreamer,  
but I'm not the only one,  
I hope some day you'll join us,  
in the world will live as one.

Imagine all the people  
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer,  
but I'm not the only one,  
I hope some day you'll join us,  
And the world will live as one.

Imagine no possessions,  
I wonder if you can,  
No need for greed or hunger,  
A brotherhood of man,  
Imagine all the people  
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer,  
but I'm not the only one,  
I hope some day you'll join us,  
And the world will live as one.

**-John Lennon**

**3**

While he hangs around with Nagi whenever he's home, Tennyson likes sleeping in my bed. It suppose it's because I feed him most of the time and neither Schuldig or Crawford will touch him. Schuldig likes the cat, no doubt, but he's not really the 'pet' sort of person. He would prefer to look and not touch. He's the kind of person who'll never procreate on purpose, but will willingly baby sit his brother's offspring for the day, just because he doesn't have to deal with them after he's spoiled them rotten.

Crawford is still sneezing, but he very rarely ever complains about the cat. He had better things to think about, like the move to our next living place. For the first time we have enough money to invest in a house! I haven't lived in a house since my parents' split-level in the Dublin suburbs. And here, in Tokyo, where land is so scarce and valuable, we're going to buy a house. I'm excited. We might actually go an entire day without stepping on one another's toes!

Of course, the whole searching, researching, and paperwork, paperwork, paperwork on top of missions and bodyguard duty to Takatori and his little band of insane children is really stressing Brad out. He often comes to lunch looking wrung out and sick. He's sucking down orange juice and vitamin pills faster than we can get them, but I still think he might get the flu. It's the dead of winter, one of us four has to get sick, it's fate.

I'm surprised Nagi hasn't brought some bug home with him. He goes out more than any of us, and to a germ-infested school, no less. He seems impenetrable. Maybe it's an evolutionary alteration of the Japanese to live in such close quarters and only rarely have an epidemic. Of course, Nagi's taking vitamins as well. I've no interest in getting sick or dealing with a feverish telepath. Schu is horrible when he's sick.

Tennyson seems to enjoy sharpening his claw on my exposed back as I lie awake and ponder a spider on the wall. It's probably somewhere close to nine in the morning, Schuldig is still snoring beside me, red hair splashed over the blue-sheeted pillow like an abstract painting, making me wonder if he has some kind of blockage to be making that amount of noise.

Have you ever noticed how men snore louder as they get older? I hope to god I die before he reaches forty. No doubt he'll be waking up an entire city block by then.

I feel a slither of claw against my back, the 'merr' of an angry feline as he strolls up and very calmly starts trying to eat my hair. I groan, not at all ready to get up, but I know it's futile. He's as insistent as Schuldig sometimes.

I sigh and get out of bed, pull on a pair of jeans and stumble my way to the kitchen. Unexpectedly, Crawford comes around the corner and I nearly run right into him. I frown at him and he ignores me, looking through the classified ads with a highlighter.

"If you were up, why didn't you feed the cat?" I growl, thinking of my probably bleeding back.

He looks at me impassively from behind the paper, glasses flashing.

"I'm not touching that crap."

"Oh, come on! It's kibble, dry food."

"It's disgusting. And it smells like shit."

Two curse words referring to defecation in less than a minute…he's in a bad mood already. Of course, when isn't he mildly constipated? The man thrives on bitching about something. I sigh and dug the bag of kitty food out of the pantry and dump a cupful into a bowl, Tennyson winding around my legs in adoration. He attacks the food the moment I set it on the floor, and I'm forgotten in a heartbeat.

"Any luck with the houses?" I ask as I sit down, feeling daring to ask. I also feel daring enough to try Crawford's disgusting American-made coffee and burn my lips. I squeeze my eye shut and gag. It tastes remarkably like tar. I get up to find the milk carton and sugar bowl.

"I've found a few that would fit into our specifications." His specifications, I just want the basement to be concrete. I'm sick of having to do interrogations in warehouses.

I dump more milk than coffee into the cup and stir in a huge amount of sugar, try it and gag again. I didn't think it was possible, but the coffee got worse. I get up to make a pot of tea and start taking down a teapot, the caddy and cups.

American barbarian…

"Would you be interested in going with me to look at some of them?"

American barbarian with a master's degree…

I let the water whistle long enough and loud enough to wake Schuldig up and only take it off when I can hear him snorting awake in the other room, cursing. I flip off the stove, pour the water in the pot and drop some bags in to steep, and then take it all back to the table.

"Sure, why not?" I say with a shrug, "Tea?"

"Your tea tastes like shit."

"American barbarian."

**_NS_**

It's surprising how normal our lives are and aren't when compared to other people. We are paid money to kill, maim, torture, interrogate and otherwise make the target suffer something horrible. Sure, that's fine. On and off day we sit at home, read the newspaper, bicker over who drank the last of the milk, take out the trash, clean the bathroom, sleep in and feed the cat.

Surprisingly normal, like looking for a house…

Yeah right.

Crawford's looking for a sign, not a house. He figures he'll know when we see the right house, that he'll see the future of the house with us inside of it.

After four houses I'm starting to think he's about as reliable as those psychics you call on hotlines.

I'm plastered to the passenger side window, totally disoriented by the Tokyo traffic and directions and back roads, exhausted by the stress of following this crazy man around. There is classical music playing faintly in the stereo designed to blast death metal (and does when Schuldig can steal the car), as if it's too meek to dare playing around the fuming Brad Crawford.

Oh yes, that cool exterior, the flat, emotionless face, that Ice Princess with the stick up his ass, that is a fuming Brad Crawford. I can tell he's mad by the way he's gripping the steering wheel and weaving through traffic, all sharp turns that throw me around against the seat belt.

I feel as if my life entirely relies of Japanese safety features and I pray to the car gods that this isn't the defective one of the litter.

"Brad…maybe we should slow-"

"Shut up." he snaps back, his voice cool and vicious.

It makes me think of the bitter winter wind outside. I obey and huddle against the door, hoping I'm not killed by a passenger-side impact.

**_NS_**

"When I saw this house, I immediately thought of you!"

You an every other realtor we've met today, lady.

We are following a middle-aged woman in a plaid dress suit and black heels up the walk of a modest, pseudo-Japanese-style suburban house, a little farther from the city and smaller than originally warranted, but beautiful. The woman barely comes up to my elbow, but then, I'm tall and she's Asian…

She opens the door for us and starts telling us about the four bedrooms, the two and a half baths, the unfinished basement, but Crawford isn't listening. His eyes are distant behind his glasses and I know that this is the house. I look around the foyer and smile to the woman.

"We'll take it." I look at Crawford to see if I guessed right and he nods.

"But you haven't seen the house yet…" she replies, incredulous.

"That's fine. When can we move in?" Crawford says, "We'd like to as soon as possible."

I smile and point into the living room. "But can we get rid of the carpet here? We're not good with white."

"O-of, course!"

**_NS_**

"And this is supposed to be a step up? I want to go back to the apartment!" Schuldig whines as he walks into the nearly-bought house, carrying the growling cat in his cage.

"Stop complaining, Schuldig, and help move our stuff inside," Crawford snarls, "Or at least stop blocking the door!"

He moves as Brad and I cart the couch inside and drop it in the living room. I had been hoping it would be traded in or sold or murdered on the way over, but no such luck. That couch will probably live forever. I go back outside to help direct the movers where each room is and what to put in them. Stupidly, Schuldig wrote all the labels in English. He calls it a protest against change, I call him a Republican.

We stand bickering in the front yard as our neighbors peek out of their windows and from behind the shrubs surrounding our front yard, eyeing the four strangers moving in. Nagi is the one they approach, seeing as he's Japanese, as he explains to them that we're moving for work in one of the international corporations in the city. They 'Oh' and nod, but their narrowed eyes don't change. We'll be the subject of rumors the rest of the time we live here, I'm sure of it.

"Do you think we can put a swing in this tree, Farfarello?" Nagi asks, looking up at the elderly…something…occupying much of our front yard. I don't know trees. I know it's the kind with the leaves that fall off in winter because there aren't any left, and I know it's old because I can barely get my arms around its trunk.

"I don't see why not. Go help the men? And no powers."

He frowns at me and that typical 'I know, I know' way teenagers do, something he's been doing more and more since his birthday, and goes off to carry boxes to the kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, office.

"And don't let the cat out until we're done!" I shout after him.

I look back up at the tree. A swing, eh?

If anything, it'll keep some of the stranger rumors from circling us. I figure it's a good idea and go off to help with the kitchen table.

**_NS_**

It's a month and we're still living out of boxes. The cat's loving it, because he has so many places to hide, but the rest of us hate it. Nagi's already unpacked in his closet of a bedroom on the far end of the upstairs hall, all electrical plugs occupied and the second phone line constantly busy. The bathroom that stands between his room and mine is spotless; even the toothbrushes are set up in their designated little spots. Crawford is still loosing his shoes from time to time, or has to go searching for a tie in one of the boxes in the kitchen, but is otherwise unpacked in the master bedroom and bath.

Schuldig emptied the boxes by dumping them in a great heap in the center of his bedroom floor. He hasn't touched it since. I hate unpacking simply because I never really bother with nesting. My bed's made, my straight jackets hung neatly up in the closet, but that's it. My clothes are piled on the floor by the dresser and my books are jammed haphazardly into the bookshelf without any of my usual organization. I don't have drapes yet, so I hung a towel over the window and haven't moved it since.

The kitchen is littered with remains of boxes, dishes piled on the counters, pans misplaced in the new cabinets, refrigerator just recently plugged in. I'd get around to it if I wasn't so busy trying to finish the basement. Crawford told us that Schuldig, Nagi and I had six to eight weeks to finish it to his specifications while he dealt with minor missions from Takatori and compiled his annual reports to Esset. Schuldig hasn't been much use, unwilling to get whitewall dust in his hair and the constant threat of spiders usually keeps him away.

We have to make a holding cell, an interrogation room and a small living space just in case we ever need to house someone long-term. We've never had to before, but then, we never had a house to offer. It's exhausting work, drilling holes in concrete walls, hanging insulation and sheetrock and welding our own bars. I've never been entirely technical, I would rather destroy a bit of engineering than make it myself, but Nagi just tells me to consider this a 'learning experience'.

Of, course he can say that, he can escape to school every day. I'm stuck here listening to a whining German just because he got paint on his jeans.

If I never have to build something again it would be too soon. I send Schuldig away to hook the television up, something I told Nagi to do weeks ago, but he never did. Schuldig says he doesn't know how, but I'm at my breaking point. I snarl at him to figure it out away until he leaves, muttering about my attitude problem.

"Worse than Nagi…Mein Gott."

"Bugger off!" I shout after him.

I go back to welding, hating these bars with every fiber of my being. When they're up, I hope our prisoners can feel that hate.

**_NS_**

Basement is finished. We had two weeks to spare. Two blissful weeks where I finished unpacking, repainted the living room a cheery grass green color, and helped Nagi tack up some band posters. Crawford's office is still a mess, but it was always fairly bad off before. He refuses to let me clean it, even though I'm feeling excited about it now that I've worked up a steam, saying I'll ruin the organization of the papers scattered on the desk, floor and pinned to the walls.

I just gape at him. What organization?

**_NS_**

It took a while, but mornings have gotten back to normal now. I get up in time to make breakfast and see Nagi off to school (dawn, ugh), and then I feed the cat, make tea and sit down to enjoy the quite of the neighborhood from a small armchair in the living room. Sometimes I'll have a book, but other times I just like to watch the men and women get up and go to work, the street as it settles down for another quiet day, the children playing in the snow in our front yard as they head to school…

After everything is quiet again, I go back to bed and sleep until the late afternoon. I usually only wake up because Schuldig's playing his music too loudly. I get up again to take my medications, vitamins, and sit down to flip through the soap operas. I actually find one in Spanish and spend the hour watching it, during which Schuldig comes downstairs and watches with me, laughing at the melodrama.

At two or three, Crawford gets and up we can hear him start up a shower. He comes down twenty minutes later, dry, pressed and an entirely different person. We usually don't talk to him when he's in the part of Oracle, but this afternoon is different. He actually stand in the doorway to the living room and tells up the mute the television.

"Weiss will be crossing our paths soon," he says softly.

"Oh my God, did you step on the cat again?" Schuldig says in much the melodramatic way the actress on screen had been dying.

"Who's Weiss?" I ask, although I'm uncurious.

"Professionals from Kritiker."

My head snaps up and all of Schuldig's joking stops. I can see he isn't smiling.

"Those rivals?"

Kritiker and Esset aren't really rivals. They've been circling each other for years, but haven't yet attacked. Would we be the first teams to meet? Would we start the war?

"I've been trying to avoid them, but it seems inevitable. I know at least three of them have a vendetta against the Takatori family-" (through research, no doubt) "-so we're bound to meet them soon enough."

Schuldig smiles slightly, then wider, and wider, until I think his smile it going to eat his face whole.

"They're the start of a new era for us, aren't they?" he asks. When was he privy to Crawford's predictions and plans? I'm mildly jealous before I remember he is privy to everything. He's a telepath.

Crawford shakes his head and leans against the doorway.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Schuldig. Yes, this first fight will begin something new for the team, but it won't be a while until…they die."

_They_, haven't being spoken in a whisper, had to mean the Elders. I had only met them via internet connections in the small room we called the 'Space Room' where we took out missions from Esset directly. Only Schuldig and Crawford had met them, Schuldig once in his terrorized youth and Crawford repeatedly, because of his position as team leader. Even though I hadn't met the Elders, every operative knew their power and feared it, rightly so. The Elders were rumored to be legendary psychics in their own respects, and probably the very first members of the SS program that spawned Esset.

In other words, these people were worse than the Nazi's. They were the gods that Nazi's worshipped.

I shuttered.

Crawford noticed me and nodded.

"We'll be the end of that some day, gentlemen, and maybe the start of something else should we survive."

"May? You don't know?" Schuldig demanded.

"I haven't Seen it, no."

So matter of fact, so nonchalant. He must be as terrified as we are. We don't want to die. We just want to live in freedom.

Brad reached for his cell phone seconds before it rings and we can hear Takatori's voice as he berates our leader for not being on time. Crawford calmly explains to the man that he said earlier that he would be running later, yesterday in fact, and that he would along presently. No apologies. Crawford never apologizes for anything.

He hangs up the phone and grouchily clips it back to his belt, hiding it with his gun under his coat. He checks his watch.

"One of these days I'm going to enjoy watching him die and throwing this goddamn phone into the sea."

"Prediction or threat?" Schuldig and I quiz.

Brad just levels us with a glare and leaves, the front door clicking shut behind him.

We turn to one another and smile, then turn the volume up on the television to watch. Later I make a bowl of popcorn and we sit together watching movies. Nagi walks in on us kissing in a romantic-movie-influenced moment and makes a grossed-out noise before escaping the handfuls of popcorn we throw at him. Schuldig and I laugh and I wonder if it'll be this good when we get out of Esset.

_Fin Chapter 3_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **Written in the time span of two Cirque du Solel CD's, 'Mystere' and 'Alegria'.

Right, so are you bored of the 'nomal-life' thing I'm doing with the boys? Good, because things are about to get hairy real quick.

Actually, about the Space Room. I have a theory that it isn't a physical place at all, but on an entirely different plane, and thus exists in the huge state it does in the anime. Either the boys can somehow get to another plane of existence or it's being transmitted via Schuldig's telepathy.

**To My Readers:**

**Rori Barton: **Thank you. About what to do next for your review, how about you comment on the context and how you think I'm fairing in the sloshing of storytelling? (passes off candy)

**xKokurox: **"Kind of" love my portrayal? (pouts) What's this "kind of" business?

(taps nose) And I practically live at It's where I get the canon information. Good idea, though. All my other readers! Go there and check it out for more Farfie-Swartz action!

And I'll update when I am inspired to update. The writing gods are still a bit pissy with me since I started focusing on art, so it's best not to anger them.

**Kadathorri: **(squints) Is that word 'squeal' or 'sequel'? My spell check was look at it and puttered out in confusion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: **It's twelve o' three and the power has been out for about two hours now. I'm glad I have a laptop, or else I really wouldn't have anything to do.

It's actually kind of nice, the silence of the house, I can hear just about everything. And the lights from the surrounding areas are enough the pierce the pitch blackness in the house. Of course, it's really very dark in the basement here, and I'm afraid of the dark, but I've got a couple of reliable flashlights that should tide me over until the laptop battery dies and I really have nothing to do.

Insomnia sucks when you can't light candles in your room. I'm scared of the mirrors.

**Let's Have A War**

There's so many of us,  
So many of us,  
So many, there's so many, there's so many

Let's have a war  
So you can go and die!  
Let's have a war!  
We could all use the money!  
Let's have a war!  
We need the space!  
Let's have a war!  
Clean out this place!

It already started in the city!  
Suburbia will be just as easy!

Let's have a war!  
Jack up the Dow Jones!  
Let's have a war!  
It can start in New Jersey!  
Let's have a war!  
Blame it on the middle-class!  
Let's have a war!  
We're like rats in a cage!

It already started in the city!  
Suburbia will be just as easy!

Let's have a war!  
Sell the rights to the networks!  
Let's have a war!  
Let our wallets get fat like last time!  
Let's have a war!  
Give guns to the queers!  
Let's have a war!  
The enemy's within!

It already started in the city!  
Suburbia will be just as easy!

**-Off of the eMOTIVe CD from A Perfect Circle. **

**4**

/Oracle to Berserker, are you in position/

/Aye. Prodigy/

/Hai. Mastermind/

/Since we're doing this ethnic thing, Ja. And I can see some very lovely young men coming this way. Four of them, armed. About two minutes walk from the North to the door./

/Weiss./ Brad's mind supplied unnecessarily. We all knew who was coming tonight; it was what had kept us going all week. Even Nagi had been looking forward to meeting the kickstarts to our new fate.

/Berserker, you know what to do. Timing must be perfect./

/Ah, rules, rules. You've got to lighten up, Oracle. You're no fun anymore./ I lilt back, but I slink into the shadows anyway and check my knives. No matter what I say, I won't disobey his orders. He knows what he's doing.

I can feel Schuldig close the link around our minds, just between him and me.

/You trust far too easily. He's still a leader in Esset, you know. He could betray us at any moment/ he hisses into my head. My face is grim as I look from the shadowed overhang where I'm hiding to Schuldig's perch on a nearby rooftop.

/Save your plots of treachery for later, Mastermind, and keep on task. Now open up the link before Oracle throws a tantrum./

He does so without hesitation, ignoring my 'I told you so' thought when Crawford gives us an icy remark.

/If you ever do that again, I swear to God I'll have you on a plane to Esset so fast yo-/

/They're at the door./ Schuldig whispers, although he doesn't have to. He thinks it adds mystery, a flair to real life. I think it's annoying.

/At the ready, wait for my word./

/Yes./

/Understood./

/Roger./

I tense, the muscles of my legs bunched under me, keeping balance on the narrow ledge just above the inside of the door. I'm supposed to block it when they enter. I hold my breath when they slither inside, silent as death, and so graceful.

I am silent too, my feet bound in soft-soled boots that absorb the slap of concrete when I jump down from my perch and land in a crouch by the door. I close it quietly, flip the latch and disappear before they even know I'm there. The small one senses something, turns to see me, but I'm already gone and all he finds it a locked door. He's at the ready, a small crossbow on his arm and a whisper into some kind of radio at his ear. The others ready their weapons, look into the darkness wildly.

"Come out!" one of them, a deep-voiced one who carries a sword shouts. I can practically feel Schuldig's leer. By now he should be off of the roof and in the building, snuck in through a back way with Nagi, standing to either side of Crawford when our leader decides to introduce us. I'm still guarding the door, my finger touches a light switch and I almost flip the switch before Crawford's mental voice orders me to.

/On, now./

Fifty fluorescent lights turn on at once; even I'm blinded for a moment. I was expecting it, though, so I have a bit more time to dodge the arrows (darts?) that sing past my head. The four Weiss assassins, our competition to a point, seethe at the idea that maybe they have been had.

Their eyes turn to Crawford, looking smug across the room in a sole office chair, at Schuldig draped over the back of it, smoking. Their eyes widen at Nagi's young face and at my own fearsome strangeness when I slide beside him. There are no words exchanged, no thanks, no threats, just the red katana-carrying one screaming the others into action. A split second later and the four of Swartz are scattered, avoiding harm with the ease of a life's training.

One with claws follows me, even though my eye is watching out for Nagi fighting the one with darts. I dodge a slice of gloved daggers, roll away and unsheathe one of my own knives to defend myself. Nagi can deal with it; he'll be fine on his own. My eye flickers across the room to Schuldig, mocking a blonde man with wire, running circles around him as he brutally plays with whatever horrible memories he might have buried deep inside his head. Crawford is predicting every move of the swordsman, making the redhead look like an idiot.

I can feel a sweat break out on my forehead when our knives clang against one another, the tiger's claws and mine, my mad little blood-loving smirk against his growl, his strange brown eyes. We manage to lock our weapons together and I kick him in the thigh hard enough to make him cry out and kneel, but I'm pleased to see that his claws remain steady.

"Who are you?" he hisses at me. I smile and tower over him.

"Swartz."

/Mastermind, cover. We're pulling out./

/Aw, but I was just starting to have fun/ Schuldig whines. I'm afraid I agree with him. I want to tear this boy at his knees before me apart.

I can feel the surge of Schuldig's power, knowing Crawford and Nagi have already cut the connection and getting ready to make their escape. The eyes of the boy before me narrow, and then blank and his grip on the claws go slack enough for me to release my knife. I slip away and meet the others outside. Crawford's straightening his tie and Nagi's already in the car. Crawford starts the car and we wait for Schuldig to back out of the building, red-faced with the effort of keeping four apparently driven minds entirely under control.

We could kill them so easily, crush their frail bodies and minds, tear them apart…

I almost ask why we don't as Crawford drives off, tires squealing. Schuldig lays his head in my lap, a headache burning behind his eyes.

"Because they're important," Crawford growled.

"How?"

"Later."

_**NS**_

Schuldig swallowed a couple of headache pills and he and I stepped into the shower to fight over the hot water, although we were too tired to really carry on very long. I had no real reason to be there, I hadn't wallowed in any blood, but I was reluctant to get out all the same. It didn't help that Schuldig was smirking at me in a nasty way that made my hackles rise whenever I considered getting out. It was actually Crawford who ended our silent dispute, his fist loud against the door.

"Stop wasting the hot water!" I tense at the tone of his voice and nearly crouched to escape any gunfire. He is a little trigger happy after a mission without kills, though thankfully he's only shot at Schuldig once before. I sigh and get out of the shower, taking a moment to dry off while Schuldig try to decide if it is a good idea to test Crawford's patience or not.

I rip the curtain open and Schuldig curses eloquently at me. I shut off the water and throw him a towel.

"Goddamn asshole!"

I turn and leave. I really don't feel like dealing with him. I go to my room and lock the door. I don't want to wake up and find myself pranked by an angry telepath just because I ruined his shower. The last time he dyed my hair matchstick red.

I go to bed dreaming of the clawed boy from Weiss.

_**NS**_

I groan when the towel is ripped from the window and the light punctures my sleep. I throw my arm over my eyes and try to turn away from the light when Schuldig sits on my hips.

"How did you get in here?" I grouse, "Get off!"

"You fucked up my shower."

"That's not all that going to be fucked up if you don't get off of me!"

"Oh, scary…"

"Can't you two do something productive for once?" Nagi snarls from the doorway. Schuldig and I turn to frown at him, wondering why he isn't at school.

"It's Sunday."

"Oh," I whisper, laying back on the pillow and wishing so very much that I could go back to sleep.

"Can't you go play with your little pussycat, Nagi-boy?" Schuldig sneers.

I try to throw Schuldig off, but he barely moves. "Shut up, Schuldig."

He rounds on me, his eyes afire with anger, "I bet you'd like to go play with that little pussycat of your own…Pretty little white kitty…"

"Oh, Hell, Schuldig…"

Schuldig's sneer widens more, his blue eyes furious. He lets out a sharp laugh. I throw him off and slip out of bed. He's already on his feet.

"Jealous, Love?" I purr, matching Schuldig's smirk with one of my own. I can see Nagi in the doorway, leaving to go find Crawford, expecting the man to somehow manage to get us to stop fighting.

"Jealous? Of you? God, never!" Schuldig scoffs, eyes cutting derisively at me. It would bring me such pleasure to hurt him…

I grab him by the hair and drag him to the door, throw him out and lock it. I jam my chair under the knob and hope it actually works somewhere else besides the movies in keeping unwanted people out. Schuldig is cursing on the other side, slamming his hands against the wood and arguing with Crawford when our leader arrives and tells him to shut the hell up. Brad asks him if he's been drinking. I think it's too early to consider that, but you never know with Schuldig.

To be honest, though, he's right. I can't wait to play with that clawed boy again…

What can I say? I'm a cat person.

_Fin Chapter 4_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **Cue the dramatic music, Weiss is here! About time I dragged them into the story, isn't it?

**To My Readers: **

**Rori Barton**…Exactly like the first one? Well, I was kind of going for some consistency, but is it really that much of a carbon copy? Oh man, if it is, I might as well go and suck some bleach fumes and end it all…

**Morbid Knight**Hey, I like fangirls.I'm a fangirl myself. Fangirls read my stuff. How could I dislike fangirls? That'd be moronically hypocritical.

But I'm not very fond of Nagi/Farf fics. I don't know, I just draw the line at shota.

**xKokurox**I agree with you totally about Farf, Nagi and Schu.

And I tried to put the site up but fanfiction dot evil decided to mess it up.

Go to Farfarello dot org and read the fics. They're so good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **I sent this in an emailto a friend of mine. I have yet to receive her comments:

This is a test of the Industrialized Economic and Political Oratory Group (IEPOG) National Liberality Feminist Art and Anti-Warbush Protest (NLFAAW-BP) alert. This is only a test. Please use the ten minutes given to you to practice hiding your head in the bucket of sand under your desk and praying to your respectively non-existent gods that no one in the office will notice you pissed your pants out of fear of the Liberal Lefties (LL, copyrighted).

If this was a test, a barrage of tie-dye-wearing Marxists would be living peacefully in their commune and Social Anarchy would be the norm. Your tie, suit, briefcase and paycheck would mean nothing, and your supposed 'higher learning' would not exist to the wonders of drug addict philosophers. You would be a worthless nobody.

This concludes the testing of the Industrialized Economic and Political Oratory Group (IEPOG) alert. It was only a test, so you can go back to your consumerism-induced lives. Now for your regularly scheduled program…

(I was having a sardonic moment.)

**On A Plain**

I'll start this off without any words  
I got so high I scratched 'til I bled

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

The finest day that I ever had  
Was when I learned to cry on command

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain  
I can't complain  
I'm on a plain

My mother died every night  
It's safe to say don't quote me on that

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

The black sheep got blackmailed again  
Forgot to put on the zip code

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain  
I can't complain  
I'm on a plain

Somewhere I have heard this before  
In a dream my memory has stored  
As a defense I'm neutered and spayed  
What the hell am I trying to say?

It is now time to make it unclear  
To write off lines that don't make sense

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

One more special message to go  
And then I'm done and I can go home

I love myself better than you  
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain  
I can't complain  
I'm on a plain

-Nirvana "On a Plane" from the _Nevermind_ album.

**5**

Schuldig isn't speaking to me. In fact, he hasn't said so much as a little whispered 'fuck you' in my ear in the past two days. He's even stopped fighting with Crawford and picking on Nagi. He's stopped leaving his room, when he's at home at all.

It's actually quite nice…the house has never seen such silence.

I know he's pouting, he does it to get attention sometimes, probably because he lost our little fight earlier this week.

/I didn't loose. You didn't let me finish./ he snaps, obviously reading my thoughts from across the room. I glare at him and drink my tea, look for the knife I use to sharpen my charcoals.

"Ignoring you," I say nastily and go back to my drawing. Tennyson's asleep in Crawford's favorite armchair across the room, shedding his white fur all over the plush black material. Brad's going to throw a fit, but at the moment, the cat is making a good subject.

/I doubt you could ever ignore me, Farfie./ he purrs back, his rings clinking on the side of his coffee mug. He's still dressed for the rave he just got back from, at dawn, entirely smashed. Brad and I had to drag him upstairs to bed, he was so sloshed, and he is apparently too hung over to bother taking his makeup off…he looks like he got punched.

"Please don't call me that, you know I don't like it," I say smoothly, using a tone remarkably like Crawford, all calm manipulation. I don't even look up from the paper, as if this fight isn't worth it.

I can practically feel him seethe and I revel in it. Now I know how housewives feel when they get the better of their husbands…or mothers to their spastic sons, either one…

Schuldig slides the chair back and storms over to me, somehow making enough noise with his bare feet to wake the cat and ruin my picture. He grabs the paper out of my hands and stand over me, his face so red it's nearly purple with fury.

'Oh shit,' I think, 'I am so dead.'

"You're gonna wish you were in about ten seconds, Far-far-ell-o," he grits out between his teeth. I don't know how he manages it, his jaws are clamped to hard it makes a crocodile look like a toothless toddler.

I notice that he's crumpled my drawing and am mildly annoyed. I repress the urge to smack him, grip my fists only slightly, then lean back on the couch and look up at him, expectant.

I want to see what he thinks he can do to me.

"I have no idea what spawned this tantrum, but you're acting ridiculous," I murmur as I set my charcoal and knife aside. No need for those.

"Oh, shut up!" he shouts and throws the crumpled paper in my face, "Pompous freak of nature!"

Eh? I nearly sputter.

"Hey now, name calling is out of bounds," I counter, still trying to referee this sensibly, "What's all this about, anyway?"

"I know what you're thinking, my little Irishman," he starts, his voice in the same condescending tone my mother used to use when she was about to ground me for something.

"That must be nice," I growl back. Half the time _I_ didn't even know what I was thinking, "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

He leans down and grabs my chin in his thin fingers, surprisingly strong, though I have no idea why I'm surprised. I try to pull away, but he holds me fast, forcing me to meet his half-glazed eyes, darker blue with exhaustion, just a little bloodshot. He looks like a madman.

"Is this still about the shower?" I ask, now a little bit confused. I can't really think of anything serious to have made him mad…

"This isn't about the fucking shower, Farfarello!" he nearly screams, hysterical. I briefly fear that he might break my jaw with those fingers. "This is about your curiosity about a certain kitten killer!"

I glance at where Tennyson went to hide, but I know what he's talking about.

He's so jealous…It makes me smile.

"Stop laughing, you fucking asshole!" he snaps, jerking my chin so I look at him again. I frown and grab his wrist, pull his hand away and stand up.

"What did I just say about name calling?"

He doesn't even notice my grip on his arm, crushing now that I'm a little angry. He ruined my picture, after all.

"You aren't allowed to do that," he rants, probably unable to realize that he stopped making sense minutes ago, "You're mine! You stay with me! You're mine!"

"Schu…" I say, softer, sighing. I really don't feel like dealing with this right now. Right now I just want to shut him up. He knows it too, punches me weakly in the chest, his eyes watering like they do when he has a headache.

"Mine…"

I give a suffering sigh and pull him against me, let him put his face into my shoulder as I pet his hair. He hasn't combed it in days, it's tangled. I try to pick out some of the knots blindly. I don't think he's crying, but he certainly sounds like it.

I let him stay there, there isn't any reason not to, and it beats getting yelled at. It's several minutes before he finally pulls away, looking haggard and extremely hung over.

"Menstrual cycle?" I ask bemusedly.

He sniffs and nods, looking away in slight embarrassment. "I hate family-neighborhoods."

"I know. You ruined my picture."

He looks down at the sad piece of paper on the couch, then back at me apologetically.

"Sorry about that…crime of passion."

"I wouldn't like to see you in action form something premeditated…"

He just smiles and I remember my hair…it had been red for months…totally embarrassing.

"Go get some sleep. And for God's sake comb your hair," I order and push him at the stairs.

"Would you bring me a heating pad and lemonade too?" he asks with a laugh.

"No. Take your own aspirin."

He snorts and leaves, muttering something that sounds remarkably like 'unsympathetic prick' under his breath.

_**NS**_

"What was all that racket before?" Crawford asks as he pokes his head around the corner. He is smearing cream cheese on a bagel and offers me one. I shrug and get up to go help him (and to dig out those lochs in the fridge). I sit on the counter and spread the fish over the bagel with an eager smile.

"Some girl down the street is on the rag and Schuldig got wind of it," I explain around a mouthful of bagel, "its fine now, nothing's broken, but he did crumple my drawing."

"I see," he says distractedly, frowning at my bagel. I offer him some, wondering if he'd be brave enough to try. Not everyone likes fish. Not everyone eats it on bagels or straight from the can.

I don't know how those people survive, but they've got to exist somewhere.

"How're your medications holding up?"

"Since we upped the dosage?" I shoot back, annoyed at the sudden change of subject.

"Yes. You've stopped hearing things?"

I sigh and set the bagel down with slight reluctance.

"Look, Brad, if I'm going to have a fit, stop hedging and tell me."

"I'm not hedging," he replies sourly. I give him a look and his mask slips briefly.

That alone terrifies me.

"How bad and how much time until it comes?" I ask, my voice small. I _really_ didn't want that…not now…

Actually, never again, if it's possible…

"One of your more infamous ones, but I can't pin down when exactly," he allots, even though I can tell he doesn't want to tell me anything at all. Jerk. "Sometime later this week. It'll be an inconvenience for the rest of the team, but there's nothing to be done."

I have the inexplicable urge to blame him for it…

I abandon my bagel and silently walk upstairs. I slide into Schuldig's room; the walls painted dusky red, white curtains over the modest windows, and crawl into bed with him. He opens his eyes slowly and groans at me for waking him. I can feel the resonating headache and the nausea of a hangover in full swing. I offer him a placating smile and sling my arm over his hips, drawing us closer to one another.

"What?" he grumbles, obviously too pissed at me to remain silent.

I smile again and press my face into his hair, wonder at the faintest scent of perfume…

Unless he's projecting again…

/Don't let Crawdaddy's hay-says bother you/ he says softly, his mind caressing mine.

So predictable…

"He isn't usually wrong," I whisper back, my face still in those bright orange strands.

/Nothing you can do about it. Why worry/

I bite my lip. I can't say it aloud…

_They frighten me…_

/I know, but I'll be right there with you./

I stay silent and Schuldig's arms tighten around my waist, his thin hands against my back, his breath dampening my skin.

/Get some sleep, Farfarello. We'll talk about it later./

_Aye._

A pause.

/I smell fish./

_**NS **_

Schuldig was gone when I woke up, his side of the bed cool under the crumpled sheets. I didn't fret, though, I could hear him washing up in the bathroom across the hall. I stayed in bed, watching the tree outside his window until he shut the water off and came back, shutting the door as he entered. His face was clean, freshly shaven, his hair washed and dripping on the carpet as he moved, soaking into his tattered tee shirt as he moved around the bedstead to sit next to my hip.

He stroked the back of my hand with his fingernails and I squinted up at him. He was smirking, like usual, no teeth bared. His hair cut jagged lines around the sides of his face. He looked spectacular for a man who'd just gotten over a hangover. If it were me, I'd still be half dead…

Must be a German thing…

He smiles wider and leans down to press his lips against mine, moving slowly as if marking me for a possession. He pulled away minutely, ignoring my protest, and smiles yet wider. It's creepy.

"I haven't really apologized about the drawing," he whispers dangerously against my cheek, my nose, my forehead, my hair.

"Actually, you did," I say back, wondering why on earth he wants to fuck now. The prospect of a deliriously frightening upcoming fit of madness is enough to make me a celibate man. Schuldig's hands wander down my chest and between my legs. His thin lips part in a tooth-baring grin that I can only describe as predatory.

"Certainly you don't mean that," he snorts against my ear, his tongue pointed around the shell…

I just barely manage to stifle a groan.

"I might…" I threaten, but I really don't mean it. He looms over me and we kiss again, his arms supporting him on either side of my head. I wind my hands into his hair to keep his head steady as I pillage what I can from his throat, savoring every heady moan, every full-body shutter. We roll, I push him into the sheets and help him out of his shirt, then his trousers as he slides his hands down my back and grabs my ass.

We grind together and groan. I can feel Schuldig's mind slip into mine, I notice how he's sharing everything he feels with me. I sigh and close my eye as he lifts my eyepatch off and sets it aside, as he runs his hands across my face, tracing every numb scar.

In the back of my mind, I feel like a cancer patient having a last fuck…

Ah, the morbidity in the lives of flies…

"Shut up," Schuldig growls and crowds my mind with other thoughts, pleasant, sensual thoughts. I notice his nod of approval and smile, if not a bit desperately.

_Fin Chapter 5_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **I have decided that I adore Dire Straits…

Well, some of their music, at least…

I also like to photograph doors.

**To My Readers: **

**Morbid Knight: **I just realized I did some shota in the last fic…whoops…I cross my own line…shit…

Even through the age gap, though…well, yeah, you're right, but I just can't agree. It's cute to think about, yes, but for some reason I've never liked the pairing much. Eh, opinions, everybody's got one…(laughs)

And secretly, I hate Kenken. He's tragic, yes, and that attracts evil little girls like me, but he doesn't go about being sad in a stoic kind of way, like Aya or even Yohji. It's kind of the same way I don't like Omi. Omi totally ignores his problems, or he's really good at acting, and I identify too much with him to really like him. With Ken, he goes about being sad quite openly, but like Omi, he stills comes off as pathetic to me.

Sad, but true.

Either way, I love the review…long reviews make me so happy. It made me doubly happy you can spell! (high fives) I swear to God I'm not trying to be sarcastic…(laughs)

**Rori Barton**I feel slightly manipulated…

**xKokurox**: …You know, my imaginary prozac makes me do the very same thing…weird how we both obsess about the same things…although you're probably not into it for the literary porn…Am I allowed to mention 'porn' here?

(looks around for Politically-Correctional Mojo Police)

Now I'm scared…


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: **I'm writing like mad, though I know I shouldn't be. At least I waited until my math homework was finished. I'm listening to poetry now and it's beautiful…

God! With the written word, would could want anything more?

And now for your poem:

"They sit in a row  
outside the kindergartenblack, red, brown, all  
with those brass buckles.  
Remember when you couldn't  
buckle your own  
overshoe  
or tie your own  
shoe  
or cut your own meat  
and the tears  
running down like mud  
because you fell off your  
tricycle?  
Remember, big fish,  
when you couldn't swim  
and simply slipped under  
like a stone frog?  
The world wasn't  
yours.  
It belonged to  
the big people.  
Under your bed  
sat the wolf  
and he made a shadow  
when cars passed by  
at night.  
They made you give up  
your nightlight  
and your teddy  
and you thumb.  
Oh overshoes,  
don't you  
remember me,  
pushing you up and sown  
in the winter snow?  
Oh thumb,  
I want a drink,  
it is dark,  
where are the big people,  
when will I get there,  
taking giant steps  
all day,  
each day  
and thinking  
nothing of it?" 

-"The Fury of Overshoes" By Anne Sexton.

**6**

Did anyone ever notice that Swartz contains the greatest beer drinkers from around the world, each country represented? We have Germany, supposed makers of beer, and Ireland, ethnically acclaimed most drunk citizens around the world. We also have America, land of beer bellied rednecks beating their wife and fifteen screaming brats in the trailer park, and Japan, known around the world for their finest liquor (I don't care, it's still fermented and that's beer enough for me), sake.

We also have the great warmongers of the globe (though I'm thinking back to World War two). We have two of the Allied powers, America and Ireland, and two of the Axis powers, Japan and Germany. We might even have been able to even one another out to some kind of historical moderation, but for the goddamn Germans and their Nazi spin offs.

SS is like a bad sitcom developed from one of Ed Wood's movies in Hollywood terms, if that makes any sense at all. Nazi's created the SS, SS in turn created Esset, Esset spawned their schools like Rosenkreuz, and Rosenkreuz spat every single one of their operatives out, agents of death and mayhem like us, like Swartz but a thousand times worse.

You see, Swartz has a mind of their own, a plan of their own, a destiny of their own. We have a conscience (most of the time) and could quite possibly live peacefully with the rest of society if Esset would just let their claws go slack around our throats.

Ruth once said to me, so very long ago, something about taking initiative. The words I can't remember, and I know she was referring to God's path (and my eventual one into the priesthood, if it ever came to pass), but the subliminal meaning had always interested me. Below those kind words had been sound advice.

"The world is going to fuck you over if you sit still and let it."

How could anyone ignore such wisdom?

So now I was taking the initiative, strangely craving beer (which I hate), and slipping and sliding my way to the church like a ninja on crack. The world surely felt like it was on crack. Crawford had slipped me a sedative earlier, but I managed to stay awake enough to get out of the house quietly after they'd gone to bed. Schuldig hadn't even moved when I'd unwound his arm and stuffed a pillow in my place. The shadows, though, jumped and shuttered and swam in my vision. I did not have long.

But I had long enough.

I am silent like the wind on the back of a freakishly black dove's wing, the red eye of God Himself in His house. She doesn't even notice the door when it clicks quietly shut behind me, involved in prayer.

Whore to the Devil, Incestuous Bride, Murderer of Childhood Innocence! How dare she pray here, ask for forgiveness here?

I smile despite myself, the softest of laughter falling like water from my lips. Oh God, I hadn't meant to do that…it isn't appropriate for such a solemn occasion.

"Sanctuary," I hiss, "Sanctuary, Sanctuary…"

She turns to me, a different face but for her eyes, and her smile. She always looked like she was about to cry when she smiled. I never understood why there seemed to be so much pain in her emotions. Didn't her marriage to God make her happy?

"Jei…You came," she says, voice soft and lilting, so remarkably like my own. I don't know how I hadn't thought of it earlier, but I do take after her no matter how much I despise her. Family trait, like the madness, is passed through genetic links and blood. It's why I've shed so much of my own with the idea it would keep me sane.

Now I just do it for fun.

"Do you think this place will save you, Ruth? Do you think God will save you?" I ask as I advance, the sound of my steps soaked up in the thick red carpet the color of blood. We had a red carpet in the church back home too…so red.

"I have sinned, yes, and I'm ready to repent for those sins." I don't know why, but I feel sorry for her. She, the woman who ruined my life, hadn't done it out of malice, not really. She was lonely, wanted her son back, and didn't understand that she couldn't just take things that weren't hers anymore. Her life before me had been so terrible that my sheer existence must've been the very stain she least wanted to see…

Why she had ever wanted me back, I never knew.

She extends her hands toward me, the scars of my first attempt on her life bright white against her flesh. I laugh and select a knife from the sheaths around my chest, step in closer and leer in her face.

The doors flew open and we both turned to see what was going on, the boy from before, the clawed one had kicked the doors open and was already moving down the aisle. I didn't have time to listen to his semantics…

Ruth's face when I plunged my knife into her was classic. I will always remember it. Her eyes widening so slightly, pupils dilating, mouth parting, then going slack as she slumped.

Tiger claws behind me shouted out a "Don't!", actually got close enough to try tackling me. I shove my dying mother at him and skate away with a brief cackle. He's torn between dropping her to go after me and waiting for her to finally die. If it was me I'd have left her and ripped my throat out, but he seems to have morals.

Crawford said I can't kill him, but I may certain mark him. I swoop down and draw my knife across the back of his neck. He screams and half-turns to fend me off, but I'm already on my laughing way out. He calls after me, curses at me, almost abandons Ruth to follow me…almost.

I see the car waiting right in front of the entrance, Schuldig sitting back and picking at his fingernails as it idles. I get into the passenger-side backseat as he rolls the engine over and stomps on the gas pedal. I'm still laughing, hysterically trying to breathe as I clutch my stomach.

"You know, Freud would say you had a mom complex," he murmurs and I'm reduced to silent giggles.

"He says that about everyone," I reply and wipe the tears from my eyes with my arm. My hands are still covered in blood.

"Crawford won't be amused."

"Yeah, well, not much he can do about it now."

Schuldig drives silently for a few minutes, smile gone.

"Hope you made the cell downstairs well…"

I know he put the child locks on.

_**NS**_

I must've fallen under the sedatives in the car. I woke up in the cell, briefly forgetting where exactly I was.

Now, though, I've decided that I'm back in the Esset training camp.

Or maybe I'm a Prisoner of War?

"Jei, you git, you let yourself get caught, again!" Tink mutters at me from the other side of the bars, "After all that time just waiting for the right moment, when it finally comes, you let yourself get caught by the enemy!"

"Since when is Schuldig my enemy?" I snap back. Across the room, Schuldig's head turns a little to look at me. He's obviously tuned me out completely to look so surprised at his own name. Tink just looks at me in that disappointed-mothering-way that makes me sick.

"We've been teammates for years."

"So why are you in a straight jacket, then, if you're such good friends?"

"Because I talk to you, when you obviously don't exist."

Tink laughs, "How can you see things that don't exist? What about the whole theory 'I think, therefore I am'?"

"Doesn't count."

"Why not?"

I grope for an answer, then turn away.

"Go away."

"What, no smart remarks from the almighty thinker?"

"At the time, no. Come back tomorrow when I've had a night to toss and turn over it."

/It's like listening to one side of a very weird phone conversation. No wonder you freak Crawford out. Is everything okay/ Schuldig's voice pipes. I send a searingly violent thought after him through the link and he pulls out with a curse. He's doubles over on the sofa, clutching his head and shouting at me.

"The mathematical equations of a polyhedron are to Dada as the cloning of sheep is to irony. The cloning of sheep in itself is irony, as all sheep are the same, as they follow conformity to the death. So if to say we may clone sheep, would it be just as philosophically easy to clone a human, given certain scientific allotments?"

Schuldig looks at me with a disgusted expression, storms up the stairs and slams the basement door shut, leaving me in darkness but for the glare of the computer screen he had been reading.

/Freak./

'Yes,' I think, 'But I do make perfect sense.'

_**NS**_

They think I'm asleep, but I'm not. I can hear the in the stairwell, talking, but I can barely ascertain if they're real or imagined. As tightly wound as I am in my jacket, it feels like the room is spinning…goddamn medications.

I hate God. Goddamn God. This is His great fault, my fuckup of a life, my brain hiccup turned lobotomy-fest. God-fucking-damn God. I'll kill him one day, I swear I will.

"He's obsessing again. It doesn't look like he's getting any better either."

"True, this is the worst one he's had since the amnesia. They're getting more and more frequent now."

"But he very rarely ever has minor ones anymore. Between the time of my arrival and now, he's only…fallen ill...a handful of times, and none of those were dangerous."

"That, and this time it was focused on Ruth. He's been after her for years, so naturally he'd have a bad reaction to it. I've taken a look and he's really confused about it. The meds aren't cutting it; we need to send him to a specialist."

"We don't have the time for that! We need to keep the team together. And if Esset gets wind of his defects now, they'll only replace him. After that, there's no way we can pull off our plans."

"But this is only hurting him! Schuldig is right! He needs help!"

"No. If we send him away now, they'll likely kill him. Don't you remember what they did to the impaired and sick? Don't you remember watching them tortured as a lesson for you not to follow their path, to fit into the system? He's never fit, and the only reason he's still alive is because Esset doesn't know. We need him around, he's our wildcard."

"He's insane, Brad, it isn't the same."

"He stays, period. Nagi, take first watch. And you, Schuldig, get some sleep. You look like hell."

"Well, if I didn't feel like a million bucks before…"

"I'll take over for Nagi after midnight. Now go. I've got work to do."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Goodnight Crawford, Schuldig."

The light clicks off, plunging my world back into darkness.

_Fin Chapter 6_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **(sighs) William Carlos Williams is also a favorite of mine…

**To My Readers:**

**Rori Barton: **(smiles) (eats) Do you like Hamlet?


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: **The next chapter is the last one of this installment. No worries, though, I'm working on the last part as we read.

(Insert your own poem here. I'm feeling lazy.)

* * *

**7**

I am starting to think that my mind comes and goes with the phases of the moon, like the rise and fall of the tides, pulled by its gravitational force, like a witch's Sabbat. When the moon is full, the madness comes, warping my form and consciousness with that of an animal's. When it is new and black, I am myself again, playing chess with Nagi and loosing badly.

If only it was so simple, so orderly, so short. Brad says I was incapacitated ('useless' was the word he used) for nearly two weeks. Even now they still lock me in at night, secured to the bed with leather straps, hospital grade. It doesn't bother me, I should be used to them by now. I don't loose much sleep.

Two weeks and Schuldig's still terrified to come near me; won't touch me, won't look into my head. I only catch a glimpse of him when I feign sleeping, see his hunched shoulders, his nicotine-stained fingers clutching his slim arms through his paisley shirt. His hair is flat, as lifeless as his face, drooping like those sad eyes, that flat mouth. If I was awake, he wouldn't dare look at me like that…he wouldn't even be there.

"You're not really asleep," he finally whispers through the bars, "You're thoughts are…less chaotic, though."

I blink my eye open fully and smile at him. I think I actually missed him.

He opens the cell and steps in, closes the door behind him and comes to sit on the bed next to me. If it hadn't been so long, I probably wouldn't have felt so revolted when his hip brushed my side, when his hand pushed my hair back. He leaned forward, just inches from my face and breathed deeply, smelling me.

"Totally lucid…but you really need to stop thinking about 'moon madness'. It's unhealthy," he says. He was reading me and I hadn't felt a thing? Somehow that scared me.

"Not much else to think of like this," I reply, "Why aren't you in bed? It's late."

I'd heard the clock upstairs chime two just a short while ago. Schuldig just shrugged.

"I don't sleep well in a cold bed, you know that." My mouth twisted in a smile just dripping with scorn. I'd spent my entire life feeling cold, what made him think I could warm any bed, even his?

"You're welcome to stay here with the crazy," I offer, feeling strange for referring to myself in third person. It amused me.

"No way. This place creeps me right the hell out."

"Suit yourself. Is there something you want?" I ask, my breath as slow and deep as if I were sleeping, calm, genteel in its silence. It is unusual; maybe it's the way he'd been watching me before, those sad, knowing eyes. He always knew too much, he bore it like a Martyr, a real one, not those pathetic to-date ones implied by mass media. Schuldig was anything but a pop star, his pains were real. I was not empathetic, I barely understood my own skewed reactions to emotion –I laughed when I was despairing, threw fits when utterly delighted- but I wanted to reach out and touch him. I wanted to make sure this resonating saint was real at all.

He slides off the bed and unbuckles the straps of the bed, massages my stiff arms and legs until the pins and needles leave. His skin glows in the sparse light, eggshell white, soft white, in that black room, those blue eyes like the jewels of a cat. I press the palm of my hand against his warm cheek, hold his hand on my thigh with the other.

His blue and purple and pale green shirt rides up his arm and white bandages are revealed around his wrists. My stomach twists and fights its way up to my throat, silencing any rebukes that might've poured out of my wide-open mouth. He'd stopped cutting when he was seventeen, when he's discovered Prozac.

I immediately blame myself. It made sense.

That was why he'd avoided me. Before, he could've cut off our link, ignored me. This was my worst episode to date. He might not have acted on his own, with my mind tormenting his so, as I knew it would…No wonder he was damaged.

I was just like the eggs all those months ago, the eggs and the angry husband.

"You were dreaming of someone…some boy from the school who offed himself. You wanted to die like him, thought of it as artistic…" Schu explains in soft tones, his voice still nasal, his accent thick in the darkness.

I almost apologize but he leans forward and kisses me instead, eyes bright with command in the darkness.

/Don't. It's over. I'm fine./

But I can't move on…It was my fault…

I don't even realize I am crying until Schu yanks his sleeve over his hand and wipes my face…silk against my skin, chancing ruin. Does he also chance ruin when he touches me? Will I be his end some day?

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice echoing off the bare cinderblock walls, disgusting in it's plaintiveness, but I couldn't stop myself, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Schu just smirks at me and waits for me to calm down so he can rub his stubbled cheek into my still-open palm, squeeze me fingers to prove how real, alive and strong he is. His eyes are lined with enough sleepless black he could've been wearing makeup. His face was like the belly of the full moon, glowing as if on its own.

"Lucid, but still my crazy one," he purrs, "Come sleep with me?" He is already getting up, one foot steady on the floor.

"Brad said I'm safe now?" News to me. So far he wouldn't even give me my eye patch, convinced I'll kill myself with the elastic band. Schuldig shrugs.

"I'll keep my eyes on you." I am still iffy, tired. I can't tell if he wants company, sex or both. I really don't feel all that interesting ins ex…not tonight. He leans against me, presses his mouth to my ear.

"I could fix that," he whispers seductively. I shutter, my body screaming in protest again, totally without my permission. I flinch too violently and nearly fall off the bed.

"Don't worry. I just want some sleep, a warm bady…you know. Too tired to make an effort anyway…"

I nod and let him lead me upstairs. I am weak from two weeks of little food. His fingers on my wrist overlapped now. I'd lost enough weight that I could count my ribs and I had to hike my pants up over and over again to rest on my protruding hips. Schuldig's hand is on my hip now, guiding me…

We undress in silence, didn't even bother with a light and Schu slips into bed after me. The bed is pressed up against the wall on one side, and him on the other. There's no way I could crawl out of bed without him noticing. I turn onto my back and relish in the fell on him when he curls against me, his break and strong, calloused hands, his shipped fingernails. Ironic, those nails; he's always so meticulous of his appearance. I press my face into his hair, my chest swelling with emotion. It's random, out of place and uncontrollable, like a throwing knife once it's loosed.

"Don't say it, Far. You don't know what love is," he breathes before I even open my mouth, naming it for me.

"I know hate. It there much difference? They feel the same somehow." They do, the warm simmering in my gut, the strange, almost ticklish queasiness I felt around him…

"You die for love, do stupid things…"

"I die for hate too."

"Then love doesn't exist," Schu resolves with an annoyed sigh and turns away, obviously wishing to end the conversation. I am smiling and I slide my arm over his waist, press my chest against his back.

"Then I suppose I'll have to hate you," I whisper.

"Go to sleep."

* * *

We are working toward a common goal now, working toward some elusive idea called 'freedom'. I think the Americans have an ideal like that, but beyond that knowledge, I'm in the dark. Schuldig and Brad define it as never having to work for Esset again, as destroying Esset. Nagi is just as excited as they are about the plan they describe to me, more prophesy than anything else. 

Brad is sporadic with the details, either hiding the vicious bits or honestly lacking any other information. Either way, I see a lot of holes and often say so. Schuldig just glares as me, though he knows I'm right. Brad nods, pushes his glasses up his nose and nods again.

We get a new hit from Takatori, due for later this week. I don't know if I can go, as I'm still recovering and I'm wary of getting in a fight and loosing what stability I might have, but Brad is unsympathetic, as usual. It's just as well; I hadn't expected anything less of him. Schuldig keeps shoving food in my face, demanding I eat and get my strength back, but usually I just ignore him, turn up the television and tell him to move out of the way or ask Nagi to do it for him.

* * *

We stumble into the house, the light of the streetlamp pouring in after us, like the policemen in pursuit of us. We had almost been caught on our escape and had to drive around the city blindly for an extra hour even while Schuldig's headache raged and the cut on my are bled all too freely. Weiss had nearly killed us and we all knew it. Even Nagi was huddled in his seat, eyes wide and not a little frightened, though he would hide it whenever Brad bothered to look around and check on our condition. He, as the least injured of us, drove us home, and I spent most of the time begging him to pull over at a hospital or take us home. Schuldig's migraine and Nagi's eyes were frightening me. 

We had been conducting a simple bodyguard duty for Takatori's daughter when they'd just shown up out of nowhere. Even Brad had seemed surprised at Weiss's arrival. We had gotten the girl out of the way and paired off to fight again, the same opponent's we'd had before. Tiger claws had actually sunk his knives into me, which was a terrible shock, displaying my lag in training all too well. The blow to my psyche throbbed more than the waves of uncomfortable prickling the spread from my arm, more than the gush of blood I tried to slow with the gauze pads from the car's first aid kit.

We were home now, supposedly safe, but I was still jumping at shadows and Crawford turned all the lights on so he could check around corners in his own paranoid way. Schuldig went upstairs to help with the house check and to swallow a handful of painkillers and Nagi sat me down on the couch to tend my arm. His fingers tremble as he winds the bandage around my arm.

Crawford, apparently satisfied with the emptiness of the house, sinks down in a chair across the room from us and sighs. Nagi ties off the bandage while I glare at Crawford, blaming him for the fearful look in the boy's eyes. The look Crawford returns to me shakes me.

He hadn't expected any of this.

"What's the plan now, Oracle?" I seethe at him. It's barely visible, but I still see Brad flinch.

He just looks at me, then at Nagi and turns away.

"We continue doing exactly what we've been doing, keep to the schedule."

I slam my hand on the coffee table separating us, about to climb over it and throttle him.

"What schedule! You haven't told us a goddamn thing, Crawford!"

He growls at me to lower my voice, but I continue shouting at him.

"What the hell are you planning! We have to know! No more blind leading the blind, you tell us now or we're leaving!"

His sharp eyes silence me finally.

"And where would you go?" he asks, so flat, so knowing. We've nowhere to go but back to Esset…we'd never be free then. He know this and nods.

"Just trust me, Farfarello," he says. Nagi stands up, and both Crawford and I look at him, surprised.

"We can't trust you, Crawford-san," Nagi says in his quest voice, "Not until you tell us what the plan you have in mind is, to every detail."

For a moment, I adore him like a miniscule god.

Crawford sighs and slumps in his chair, too worn to deny us any longer. Perhaps he knew we would demand this sooner rather than his plotted later.

He motions for Nagi to sit down again, and the boy obeys as Brad removes his glasses to clean them on the tail of his shirt. He does not speak until he is finished.

"We are going to kill the Elders," he says softly, as if They could hear him from here, deep within Japan…maybe They can.

Nagi sucks in his breath and I whisper a soft 'what'. Brad just nods.

"How? When? Where?" I ask in the same awed tone, "Why us?"

"We're going to blow up a tower, They'll be there, inside. Weiss will kill Takatori there to save a girl from The Ceremony," I shuttered, "Both Weiss and Swartz will have a hand in ending the heads of Esset."

The Ceremony was something I had never understood. No one explained it to me, but everyone referred to it in horrified tones, if they spoke of it at all. This was the second time I had heard it mentioned, and even though I didn't know what it entailed, I feared it from the look Nagi had on his face. Nagi certainly seemed to know what it was, but when I looked about to ask, he shook his head, his eyes pleading me not to ask, just not to ask.

"Does Schuldig know about this?" I ask.

"I have no doubts with as much snooping as he does."

"Ah…"

Crawford adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, then looked up at me, his glasses flashing.

"Two months. They'll be dead in two months from today. Be on the ready. We're going to have to run if we survive."

Nagi repressed the urge to swallow, I could tell. "'If"?"

Brad just looked at us, so sadly I thought he might burst into uncharacteristic tears. That alone frightened me. Brad was out rock, our St. Peter, our steadfast leader. Without his strength, what held us together, kept us alive?

What were we, Swartz, without him?

"I didn't See us get out before the explosion," he whispered, "I didn't See survive at all."

* * *

_Fin chapter 7_

_Please Review_

* * *

**xKokurox: **Are you trying to be condescending or is it popping out unintentionally? Please don't review me again. 

**Rori Barton**Actually you're mentioning Farfarello's 'deteriorating sanity' gave me a great idea on how to keep this fanfiction going strong. Before I was wondering how I could wrap this installment up, but I've got it all figured out down to the most minor running theme. Thank you for unwittingly helping me! Don't you just love it when that happens?

On another note: "Oh, there has been much throwing about of brains." 2.2.356


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: **Last chapter.

* * *

Two months and we're packed for the 'Exodus' as Schuldig has mockingly taken to calling it. We each have a gym bag of our most necessary items and the rest of whatever we might need is in two backpacks we keep with the bags by the door. Takatori has issued his orders to meet him at the top of one of his sky scraping buildings known as 'Takatori Towers', but we aren't due for another couple of hours. In the mean time, Nagi has been deleting computer files, wiring our money discreetly to fresh accounts around the globe and removing any other evidence of our occupancy in the house, including sheets, pillows, towels, and cigarette butts. Crawford can't stop pacing, and Schuldig and I escaped having to watch him just thirty minutes ago.

I am lying on the bed, feeling chilled without blankets, but enjoying the warmth of Schuldig's body alongside mine, the whisper of his breath against my face as he sleeps.

"Are you afraid to die?" he asks. He wasn't asleep after all…

I shrug. I don't know. My beliefs are still confused. Either I think there's something beyond life, or nothing. No gray area here. Afraid, though…not really. Either way it goes, I'll expect it.

"Are you?" I ask. His fingers twist strands of his hair anxiously and his blue eyes look out at me from behind his bangs.

"A bit, yes…But more of the pain and anything else. I'm not fond of pain."

"I know," I whisper back and rub the palm of my hand on his hip in soothing circles, "But it can't last forever. Everyone dies sometime, for good cause or bad or none at all."

"How profound," Schuldig laughs, "Well, if I die and you don't, I don't want a burial."

I frown quizzically at him. Was he expecting me to leave him in the middle of the road to rot?

"Cremate me and throw me into the ocean. If Esset ever comes back, I don't want to give them chance to bring me back. They have necromancers or something like them, you know…I never want to go back once I'm outta here…"

I nod and pull him against me. Secretly I refuse to let him die, ever.

"If you die, what should I do?" Schuldig asks as his leg curls over my waist.

"I don't care...just take me back to Ireland…"

He nods and presses his face against my neck, his breath slowing again for sleep.

* * *

An hour later, we're dressed, armed and ready to go. I've put some last minute provisions in the bags and my extra knives into my gym tote, but otherwise, I'm carrying all I own with me. M best knives are tucked away on my person somewhere and I feel a little like a pincushion…

Schuldig can't stop flipping the safety on and off on his gun, his own knife tucked against his ankle under the fold of his pants. He carries no ID. None of us have ID's. None of us exist. We never have, not even Nagi. Only Crawford has a keycard to let us into the building. We arrive at the tower in Crawford's black car.

Takatori leads us to a room where an altar-like table has been set up, with the little girl we had stolen away not long ago laid out, peaceful in her unnatural sleep. Aya Fujimiya, with soft brown hair and a single gold earring, the other possibly in the possession of a former lover or beloved family member…

Fujimiya, the protective, if not deranged elder brother-turned killer…his katana the embodiment of his pure desire for revenge…

She, an innocent, should not be involved in this…Crawford said she was part of The Ceremony…I pity her.

We take position ready to defend the room and its contents from anyone who might try to interrupt, though our zeal is flawed. The Elders arrive and we all lower our eyes in respect and a plea for Them not to notice us, to ignore us. For Them to take an interest in us would be our end, no doubt. They begin The Ceremony, those old, decrepit monsters and I can feel their power thrumming throughout the room, purely mental and purely evil…

Satan isn't one being, but three…The unholy trinity.

An alarm goes off, Weiss has arrived and we, in our white suits, go to do our duty and kill them. The room two floors down awaits us for this final battle. Weiss is already there and ready. I draw my knives as the other's draw their guns, the hair on the back of my neck rising in response to the power Nagi is summoning. We hold back long enough to acknowledge Oracle's order, 'Go'.

* * *

The feel of Tiger Claws slipping under my jaw and into my skull is unbelievably strange. It makes my eyes roll and my body go slack against the wall that he holds me against. I am sure this is going to kill me…I can still feel Nagi's power surging in the room, his emotions roiling within the explosive air, and heat of the flames, the tremble of the explosion, though I can barely hear it. I am released by those cruel claws a moment before the glass floor below our feet collapses. I watch passively as my teammates are dropped unceremoniously into the raging sea below, just like the tower card in a tarot pack.

I fall with them, the wind and sea salt biting my skin, the rain icy cold. It seems as if it takes an eternity to hit the water, and even longer to float down, down, deeper into its dark depths. I twist so I may watch the firelight and huge chunks of cement fly above the surface of the water, the tinge of green.

I won't reach Ireland after all…

* * *

_Fin Agoraphobia_

_Please Review_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **A bit abrupt and not a bit depressing, but that's okay.

Does he survive? Does he drown? Does he magically learn how to fly?

You'll just have to find out, won't you?

In my next installment, of course…


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